


The Moon That Breaks The Night

by orphan_account



Series: Howl at Hallowed Ground [3]
Category: Once Upon a Time (TV)
Genre: AU, Character Death, Darling Pan - Freeform, Dubious Consent, F/M, Porn With Plot, Smutty, dark!Peter, dark!Wendy, otp: I'M IN A CAGE, wendy x peter
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-11-18
Updated: 2013-11-18
Packaged: 2018-01-01 23:20:23
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,009
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1049773
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Peter gets jealous, and Wendy discovers her wilder side is only just beginning.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Moon That Breaks The Night

**Author's Note:**

> OK, so my life is in a downward spiral filled with not studying for exams and writing dark smutty things instead. AHAHA.
> 
> Oh and can we please have a support group for the latest episode I mean WHAT the everloving fuck.
> 
> This one has a little bit more of Wendy’s backstory in it- AKA, when the hell she became all bitter and savage.

 

_The Moon That Breaks the Night_

 

It was around one decade into her confinement in Neverland that Wendy decided she needed to grow a solid backbone.

She’d spent _ten years_ being completely helpless, susceptible to Peter’s every whim. When he got bored, she was the one who was chased through the forest and pelted with rocks. When he got angry, she was the one who was tossed around and hit until she bled.

(when he was happy, she was the one who got to go flying and she _ate it up she never resented pathetic little girl_ )

The Lost Boys made her suffering a personal mission; they hit her, _beat_ her, and it was all a game to them. They let jungle cats chase her for _miles_ until Peter would finally call it off, and she’d be sobbing, crying out for her mother when she got back to their camp, and then they’d boo and hiss at her until she was reduced to a blubbering _mess._

She loathed them for that. Loathed them with something broiling inside her that she hadn’t quite understood in her innocence but had later come to learn its name.

_Bloodthirst._

She loathed them all, all except Tootles (perhaps), who only ever did as the others told him not out of malice, but out of self-preservation.

Survival was, and is, not something Wendy could judge anyone for.

And sitting, weeping on her bed one night after the Lost Boys had decided it would be _hilarious_ to pretend they were going to throw her to the mermaids, with one hand pressed tight over her mouth lest the others hear, her body wracking with sobs (spasming up her spine, contorting her lips into something like a snarl but not yet, _not yet_ ), Wendy made a decision.

She looked at the bruises on her arms, the gashes left from pine cones hurled in her direction, the jeering laughter ringing in her ears, and decided that nobody was coming to rescue her. Not Bae, not John, not Michael. If Wendy wanted to survive, if she wanted to stop hurting, she _needed_ to stop believing in her knight in shining armour.

There were no knights, here. Only demons with boys’ faces, and cruel knives where fingers should be.

And if there were no knights, Wendy had to start acting less like a fairytale princess and more like a Queen. Princesses were the ones who waited to be rescued, who lay down and slept while Prince Charming galloped in on a noble steed and swept them into his arms. Queens did not lie down and accept their fate. Queens saw the world for what it was ( _cruel and suffers no fools_ ) and forged their heart in what made it strongest, they moulded each unfairness into the steel of their souls to make their _own_ armour and masked their pain and _never cried._

When the Neverland sky began to lighten, Wendy’s tears had long since dried up.

She didn’t cry when, at breakfast, Peter poured bugs into her milk and made her take a sip. She took a gulp instead, staring him down, swallowing the lump in her throat (she’s not steel yet but it doesn’t take much to snap something brittle and watch it heal). He laughed at her, said _little mouse_ , the words snapping from his sharp mouth like something poison, and ignored her.

Small victories.

She didn’t cry when Felix hit her in the side of her head with a pine cone. Perhaps she was too stunned for tears, but the expression on his face when she calmly touched the wound and examined the blood on her fingers (she didn’t see the hunger scorching in his gaze, not yet) still felt like something beautiful.

She didn’t cry when Tootles scraped his knee. She gave him a clean strip from her dress and left him, sick of playing Mother. Queens did not coo or cry at the wounded; they helped, yes, but they moved on.

Wendy only cried once. At night, where nobody could see, tears slipped down her cheeks and off the end of her nose. She had a hand pressed over her mouth, the other braced against the iron headboard of her little cot, but even while she cried, her quiet rebellion filled her with something like sunrise.

 

* * *

It was another year until Wendy stopped comparing herself to a Queen.

She was nothing _like_ a Queen. She was not regal, she was not commanding. And who could be ruler of Neverland, other than Peter?

(Queen of the doomed, Queen who is damned)

Her heart was cold. Her skin was steel. Her tears, barely existent. Wendy was something _savage,_ something crueller than a child had any right to be. _Was_ she a child, anymore? When she thought about it, she was somewhere around twenty-four years old, in years. In the mirror, however, she was still thirteen. Yet, in the mirror, her hair was wild and laced with leaves, her face was smudged with dirt and blood, her nails caked with filth and _ragged_ from climbing trees with Tootles.

The only crown she wore was made of thorns.

When Peter set the jungle cats on her, she shrieked with fear as she ran but there was laughter in there too, sliding underneath terror, murky water amongst rocks. She caught branches in her hands, hauled herself up at the _very last second,_ feet dangling just above the creature’s head.

She hooted and yelled as much as the rest of them, she baited the pirates and hissed _back_ at the mermaids. She pushed Peter when he got too close, she found his weaknesses and used them as he used hers. She grew manipulative, callous everywhere except at night. She was not Mother, she was not Sister, she was a Lost Girl whose hidden kiss had given way to the snarl that sat on her mouth instead.

Wendy was never cut out to be a Queen.

 

* * *

 

“Felix doesn’t like you.” Peter comments one day, lounging on her bed.

His feet, encased in dirty boots (Wendy will never claim to be refined but even she objects to smudges all over her little house) are propped up on her pillows, and his lanky frame is draped all over her sheets. He’s taken a liking to her bed, it seems. Or, he’s taken a liking to watching her muffle her moans into its covers while he has his head in between her legs.

“Good.” She says. “I don’t like him, either.” She’s folding her clothes up, tucking them away in her drawers, watching him with wary eyes.

He’s been in a dark mood for _days,_ darker than usual, and while it’s fun to manipulate him when he’s at his most flighty, it’s disorienting when he suddenly decides to take up residence in her home.

Peter rolls over onto his stomach, boots leaving dirty marks on her clean, white sheets. He fixes her with a quirked eyebrow, a sharp grin, and says “It’s a different _not like_ , though.”

She sighs. “Meaning?”

“Meaning,” he pulls himself up, long legs unfolding, “he hates you but he wants to fuck you, too.”

“That doesn’t work.” Wendy retorts, sharply, her mind stuttering over the word. _Fuck._ It sounds so forbidden, so _harsh_.

It describes the act perfectly.

He walks towards her, until his hand rests on her shoulder and his breath stirs her hair. He’s warm, warmer than she’d expect from someone carved from ice. It’s an illusion, of course. A game. Like everything else. She turns her head to look at him, shrugging off the hand on her shoulder. His expression hardens for a split-second, before relaxing into the smug mask he favours so.

“Does.” He retorts, and his eyes are stony and cold, despite his self-assured smirk and brow. “You hate me, but you like it when I-”

“ _That’s different._ ” She snarls, giving him a seething stare.

“Is it, Wendy-bird?” he smirks.

“Yes.”

He doesn’t bother answering, only grins down at her with eyes flat and dark as the ocean before a storm, a mouth full of knives. She almost wants him to hit her, to bruise her skin and be _done_ with it- she’s sick to death of this deadly calm that has descended over him, a steamy fog, and she’s willing to do anything to get him _angry_ again.

A furious Peter is unpredictable, violent, but at least Wendy knows how to handle him. A _moody_ Peter, though, is like something stirring underneath muggy water, reptilian and skulking in the shadows. She needs to draw him out, to let him take the bait and spend his rage. He’s no fun, like this. All danger and no _thrill._

Wendy turns to face him completely, leaning her back against her dresser. His eyes bore into hers, heat against cold, and there’s something underneath the dark irises. Something frosty, venomous. A sensation like fear runs through the cracks of her heart, but she dampens it with sharp nails in her palms ( _turn your weakness to pain and pain to strength)_ and curls her lips into a cat-like grin, close-mouthed and controlled (barely).

“Are you worried?” she asks.

Peter’s eyebrow rises further. His eyes remain flinty. “About what?”

“About Felix. Fucking me.” She makes sure to _taste_ the word, to roll it in her mouth before letting it slide from her lips in a throaty croon. She looks up at him from under her lashes, tongue between her teeth.

His expression reveals nothing, but he gives himself away when he swallows, adam’s apple bobbing. “No.” he says easily, but Wendy knows if he _really_ wasn’t bothered he’d laugh in her face, spit cruel words from his mouth ( _you can fuck anyone fuck Hook for all I care_ ) and crow to the forest in his malevolence.

Her smirk grows wider. She also knows that this wouldn’t hurt her. The freedom would be a gift. A privilege, twisted as it is. The only thing that can hurt her now is a cage.

“Good. Because I _might_ just see if he’d like it.” Wendy tilts her chin, raising an eyebrow.

She’s got him, now. Trapped him with her words, with his own possessiveness. He’s whispered _mine mine mine_ over and over again but that’s different to the overwhelming _weakness_ of admitting he wants her to be his.

She has no illusions. Peter wants to own Wendy like another would own a dog, but no matter. He can never have full dominance over her; a Lost Girl is wilder than the jungle cats, and _nobody_ (not even king of Neverland) can ever contain her. He may have been born again from the forest, but Wendy Moira Angela Darling was gifted with a new beginning when the sun warmed the earth, and it embittered inside her, a flame that cannot be doused.

Peter stares at her, mouth forming around words then casting them aside, helplessly searching for new ones, his eyes now raging with sharpest shadow. His breath streams from his nostrils in livid bursts, and Wendy is dimly reminded of the water dragons in the stories she used to read.

The comparison suits him; reptilian, skinny, with sharp teeth and ice-cold daggers surging forth with every breath.

“I think it’d be lovely,” she whispers, “I bet he’s nice and _thick_ and _long-_ ”

Peter has a hand in her hair in an instant, dragging her to him and across the room. She growls, kicking at his shins but he ignores her and tosses her onto the bed. She lands on her hands and knees and is about to turn round on her back and crack her fist to his nose but he kneels on the bed behind her, dirty boots and all, and leans forward, covering her body with his own.

He sinks his teeth into her neck, and the pain bursts through her, and she cries out with it, gasping. It’s _too hard,_ too sharp, he’s not holding back. Blood rolls down her shoulder, sticking in her hair and he doesn’t bother licking it for her, simply reaches forward to grasp the collar of her dress and _rip_ from shoulder to waist, pulling it off her roughly and tossing it to the side.

Wendy hisses and braces herself against the iron headboard, fingers curling round the cool metal. Her head hangs forward, dirty curls sweeping over one shoulder, as Peter tears her knickers off, leaving her naked except for her scuffed boots. He leans back, and she can hear him taking off his own clothes, the heavy _clunk_ of his belt falling to the floor, and then a long-fingered hand is cupping her breast and _squeezing_ until she grunts and her eyes water.

“Stupid girl,” he seethes, bringing his other hand up to dig his nails into her hip.

She whines, breathless, wet despite the throbbing at her neck and the pain in her breast ( _you’re a monster,_ says a voice). She arches her back, bottom in the air, and sends him a challenging look over her shoulder.

His expression is like black ice, and it sends thrills through her veins, sparks to her fingertips. She looks back to the headboard, biting her lip in anticipation.

He pushes into her with one, sharp thrust and it’s so deep it hurts for a moment, before he leans forward and rakes his blunt nails down her forearms and the sight of the red lines left by his fingers makes her groan. He leans back again, hands digging into her hips and drives into her, a punishing pace that makes the rusty bedframe creak with each thrust. He draws to the tip then sinks in to the hilt, again and again, reaching forward to grab a hank of curls and pull her head back.

Wendy feels his hips snapping against her, looks back to see the wiry muscles of his chest and arms rippling with each movement, mouth red and swollen with biting his lip, eyes darkened with lust and fury, and heat rises abruptly in her abdomen, coiling tightly in the pit of her gut.

She slides her tongue across her bottom lip, swallows thickly and lets loose a groan from the back of her throat, rolling her hips so that when he thrusts he hits the deepest part of her. The movement rips a shaky grunt from his mouth, but he cages it with gritted teeth and hisses “You. Are. _Mine,_ ” in between harsh, gruelling thrusts.

The laugh that tumbles into the space between them is husky, ragged. “ _Never_.” Wendy scorns, and he pulls her hair hard enough to make her think he’s going to rip some of it out.

Pleasure, sweet and aching, begins to build up in the backs of her thighs and abdomen, roiling and spitting inside her. The muscles in her core begin to ripple, fissures blistering beneath her skin as he pounds into her soft heat, and she’s _oh so close,_ but Peter leans forward to dig his nails into her hands so she can’t reach back to tip herself over the edge- he scrapes his teeth over her ear- his hips snap into hers- he comes, shuddering into her, his teeth clamping down on her shoulder.

He gives a long, rumbling groan that sounds as if it’s from some _animal_ and not a boy, and pulls out of her.

The warmth on her back is gone, the pleasure seeping from her muscles. She collapses, weakened, onto her side. Blood sticks her hair to her neck, sweat collecting in the creases of her knees and arms. Peter wipes himself off with what’s left of her dress, pulls on his clothes and then sits next to her prone form. He pushes back her hair to look at her neck, smirks and digs his thumb into the marks.

Wendy hisses and spits, raking her ragged nails down his hand, but he only catches her wrist and pins it to the bed, using his other hand to grasp her chin. He wrenches her head towards him and leans down until they’re nose-to-nose. She rubs her thighs together, whining, and self-hatred festers in the back of her head. She clamps her mouth shut.

“You’re mine, Wendy-bird,” he snarls against her lips, “don’t forget that.”

 She scowls at him, painfully aware of how soaking wet her core is. She writhes against him, screeching in her throat, fingers desperately trying to reach the skin of his hands. He chuckles at her efforts and presses a bruising kiss against her unyielding lips, then releases her and strides out of her home before she can get her hands round his throat.

She’s left lying on her bed, bruised and bloodied, to put her hand between her legs and finish herself, alone.

Despite the pain, despite the horrendous rage that fuels the shriek that tumbles forth from her mouth as she comes, Wendy looks to the door he left from and gives a dark, jagged smile.

Peter may have fucked her into something that resembles submission, but it’s her who has the upper hand. She moulded him, made him angry enough to admit (through actions, but they are far more potent than words) that he wants her, _all to himself._

* * *

It’s the next day, and Wendy’s out looking for Tootles, who sprinted over to her and gabbled something about a new climbing game, then sprinted off again in his typical, over-excited fashion.

She knows better than to call for him. The curly-haired boy is selectively deaf when he’s out having fun, so she just watches the swaying of the trees, and walks in the general direction of where he ran, knowing he will come back and ask her why she’s being so slow.

Looking around the forest, Wendy thinks it must be sometime around autumn today. Yesterday, it was humid, sticky summer, but the dry crunch of the leaves underfoot and the sticky, dead-mush smell is telling of a milder season. She skims her fingers along the bark of the trees, content that Peter is probably off sulking somewhere.

Or, his equivalent to sulking, which is tormenting the pirates. He tried to corner her again that morning, and she smiled, sank to her knees and took him in her mouth before he could even get his hands on her. She let him sink his nails into her hair, pull it, tear at it, listening to his whining moans and commands of _harder, yes there that’s good,_ endured his thrusts to the back of her throat, sucked him as close to completion as he could get without coming, then simply walked away.

He’s been snappish all day, lashing out at the other boys and glaring at her poisonously.

Wendy laughs a little to herself, touching the bruise at her neck underneath the high collar of her dress.

She’s so fixated on watching the trees for signs of Tootles that she doesn’t hear Felix behind her until he’s taken her by the throat and slammed her into the nearest trunk. She struggles blindly, hair in her eyes, and tosses it out the way. She tries to slam her elbows into his body, but he holds her at arm’s length, his muscles locked and strong.

His twisted, angular face holds none of the boyish charm of Peter’s- his nose is too sharp, his scar too ugly- thus the beast within him cannot be hidden. It is evident in every crease, every tooth, every scrape. It prowls in the corners of his perverse snarl, rotting and wild.

“ _You_ ,” he growls, “stupid little _girl_.”

She tries to spit back at him, but he has her throat in a vice-like grip and his other hand has procured a dagger from his belt. Her eyes stick to it, and he grins.

Peter was wrong. Felix doesn’t want to fuck her, he wants to _kill_ her.

(same thing same thing same thing)

“It’s _your_ fault.” He grunts. “Your. Fault. We’re. Getting. _Older!_ ” He punctuates each word by shaking her by the throat, her skull cracking into the tree.

Pain blisters in her head, and she thrashes wildly, feet scrapping against the floor as she kicks out. His hand squeezes, squeezes, and she can’t _breathe,_ her vision is clouding there’s no air and oh is _this_ how she dies? She chokes, eyes streaming, and Felix loosens his grip.

Wendy gulps air down greedily, wheezing through her bruised airways, watching the knife.

He presses the blade to her cheek, only softly. “I saw you with him,” he says furiously, “I saw you with your _dirty little mouth_ on him!”

She tries to shake her head, but he begins to dig the blade in harder, and she ceases. “That’s why we’re getting older, little mouse.”

 _No,_ Wendy tries to say, _no you’re wrong we grew up before_ -

“I have to kill you,” he says, more to himself, “because Pan won’t. He’s thinking with… not his head.” He tilts his own, the beginnings of a feral smile on his lips and that aching _hunger_ blooming in his eyes.

“Please,” she manages to gasp out.

He licks his lips, a slow, sliding of the tongue across his thin mouth. “You’d look good in red…” he murmurs, and steps closer.

 _There,_ Wendy thinks, and brings her knee up to stamp, hard on his shin.

Felix _screams_ as a sickening crack echoes through the forest around them, pulling back the knife and drawing a shallow gash in her face. His face contorts in pain and fury, and his hand loosens for just a moment. Luckily, a moment is all she needs.

She brings her hands up, digging her nails into the soft flesh of his wrists and _pulls,_ forcing him to let her go. He stumbles backwards as she leans against the tree, gasping for breath, and looks at her with fear blazing in his eyes.

Not of her, even though Wendy is fearsome enough, it’s Peter that he’s afraid of. “Please,” Felix gasps, as she opens her mouth to speak, “please, _don’t-_ ”

“Peter.” She says coldly, her eyes brewing with a dark fury. “Peter, come here.”

The trees around them creak and groan as a fierce wind whips through their branches, cold and unforgiving as the boy himself. Leaves are blown from the trees, stripping them bare, and a sudden darkness descends upon the forest. Shadows begin to writhe and manifest in the corners of her eyes, squirming and twisting like something _alive._

She’s only ever seen him _this_ angry a few times before, and it never bodes well for who the fury is directed at.

He steps out from thin air, simply melting into existence. He takes in the gash on her cheek, the knife in Felix’s grip, her gasping, shuddering breaths with an expression cast in murderous rage. He roars, pulsing forward in one smooth leap, grasping Felix by the front of his shirt and slamming him into the ground.

“ _Mine!_ ” he screams, spittle flying from his lips, “ _she’s mine!_ ”

“Pan-” Felix tries to plead with him, but is silenced by a fist crunching against his nose.

“ _Nobody takes what’s mine_.” Peter growls, and spits in his face.

He slaps him, open-handed, again and again until his lip bursts and blood smears across his cheeks. Peter doesn’t stop, screaming his rage, his possessiveness and keeps on hitting him, relentless.

The lines of his body are taut with fury, his face a contorted mask, barely recognisable as the smirking leader of the Lost Boys. His boyish demeanour is gone, replaced by purely adult wrath. Vehemence spews from every pore of his skin, and he vibrates with it, revels in it. The forest crackles with energy, shadows reaching out to touch Felix’s skin, the trees looming over them ominously. There is ferocity everywhere she looks.

Wendy watches, eyes wide. She’s trembling, she knows, and tears spark at the backs of her eyes but she blinks until they go away. She won’t cry for _him._

Peter reaches for Felix’s knife, pressing the sharp blade (still red with her blood) against his throat, and she wonders if she should stop him. He looks at her, pulls Felix’s head back by his hair. She knows that he’s waiting for her to say the word, the only courtesy he can allow her: the choice to stay his hand.

If she nods, and Felix is killed, the red will be on _her_ hands. She imagines it, thick and warm, running through her fingers.

If she lets him live, he’ll never give up. He’ll always be skulking in the corners, waiting for her back to be turned, waiting for a day when Peter can’t be called.

He deserves to die. He tried to kill her, he _dared_ to hurt her. Wendy’s skin crackles and trembles with anger; _Felix tried to murder her._ He thought he had the right to bring her harm, to raise a hand to her.

He called her _girl,_ spat it out as if it was an insult.

Wendy wants to tell him that girls are the ones he should look out for. That girls hide daggers in their pretty mouths and poison in their skirts. That while Peter is the one who slits his throat, Wendy has the power to stop him. She wants to scream _hell hath no fury_ and tell him _touch me again and we’ll see how much you can bleed,_ strike him and cut him open from his neck to his belly. She wants to open him up, let the mermaids feast on his corpse. A monster within her raises its head, roars and howls. Its hackles raise, and she spits bitter phlegm onto the ground.

She meets Peter’s eyes, and nods.

Felix doesn’t have time to scream. The knife carves across his throat and blood sprays in a grisly, red arc, soaking the bottom of her gown, splattering across her feet. His eyes are wide, unseeing, as life fades from their pale depths.

Bile rises in Wendy’s throat, but she chokes it down, pressing the back of her palm to her mouth until the urge to vomit fades. She’s gasping, leaning against the tree for support. Peter lets his body flop to the ground and stands, his eyes murky and cruel. He watches her, wiping his hands on his trousers.

The shock of it robs her of breath, but not of the faint sense of victory in her bones.

“Peter.” She says, swallowing.

“I didn’t want to do that.” He replies dully, gesturing at Felix’s dead body. “He was loyal.”

She closes her eyes for a moment, passing a hand over her mouth. “He tried to kill me.”

“Yes,” he remarks, “that’s why I had to kill him. Are you glad?”

“What?”

“Are you glad. That he’s dead.”

He watches her closely, with intense scrutiny, while she deliberates. He already knows the truth. He already _knows_ that she feels sick but her veins are flooded with adrenaline and her fingers tingle with righteous fury. He can see in her eyes that the monster within, the wolf, has risen and its thirst could only be quenched with Felix’s blood. What he wants to know, however, is whether she’s denying it or embracing it. Wendy looks him dead in the eye, and remembers every game of chase they’ve ever played, wondering how they went from nothing but bruises and dancing around each other to _this._

“Yes.” She says, and he steps forward, over the body, to touch her cheek.

“Needs bandaging.” He says gruffly.

“I’ll go to Tink.”

His lips twist at the mention of the disgraced fairy.

She ignores it, and reaches up to claim his mouth in a painful, desperate kiss. He exhales against her lips, and draws her closer until she’s pressed up against him so much she has to crane her neck to meet his movements. He tastes of bitter wrath, of bloodthirst, and it makes her head spin. Their lips slide together bruisingly, frantically, mouths open and gasping as if they’re consuming each other. Wendy tangles her fingers in his hair, and he worries her bottom lip between his teeth. It’s wrong, full of pain and sin and _death_ , with a corpse next to them and blood on her gown, but she doesn’t want to stop.

Peter takes her against the tree, trousers only just undone, her dress hiked up around her waist and knickers shoved to the side. He fucks her relentlessly, her back scraping against rough bark, her cries broken and hitching with each thrust, her legs wrapped round his hips to take him deeper. She draws him closer, sighing at the feel of his fingers digging into her buttocks, scratching her nails down his back and smiling against his returning groan. His mouth doesn’t leave hers, swallowing every gasp, every whine, every grunt until neither of them know who made which noise, until their skin seems to simply _meld_.

She can feel his relief, the words that he can’t say ( _he nearly took you from_ me) because he thinks they’re _tender_ when they’re the opposite. They’re ownership, something that can never be soft in the way he thinks it is. She can feel the cage in every thrust, every scrape of his teeth. She comes first, with him following just behind, and they slide down the tree into a boneless heap.

“Get rid of him,” are the first words out of Wendy’s mouth, and he pinches her thigh until she squeaks at the command, but does as he’s told.

Peter throws Felix’s body to the jungle cats, and watches as he is devoured. They take everything but his bones, which Peter throws into the ocean. He then watches the mermaids, a sick smile coursing through his features, as they pick them clean, sharp teeth gnawing at the white skeletal matter.

Wendy goes back to her house and waits for the tears to come, but they never do. She’s left feeling nothing but satisfaction, and realises that feeling numb would probably be more appropriate.

(but a Lost Girl wouldn’t care about that)

(neither would a Queen)

**Author's Note:**

> AND WE'LL NEVER BE ROYALS (ROYALS)
> 
> Sorry, sorry. Hope you enjoyed, feel free to comment any criticisms/questions.
> 
> I'd also like to thank all my reviewers and whoever just gave me some kudos, it's all appreciated! 
> 
> (by the way can we get some more smut in this tag there's only two of us and it's NOT ENOUGH)


End file.
